


A Collection of Pornographic Writings

by theghostsofeurope (baronvonehren)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/theghostsofeurope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just a collection of pornographic things written on various assignments, napkins, in the middle of word documents, and notes.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Collection of Pornographic Writings

**Author's Note:**

> Just a collection of pornographic things written on various assignments, napkins, in the middle of word documents, and notes.

“Oh.” The sound lingered there, a sound easily taken out of context that made John's eyelids lower. “Pity,” his lips were bright like candy and just as sweetly the words trickled out, sticky gobs, the most pleasant sound like hot caramel that invoked near-squirms. He couldn’t stand to look at them anymore, not those thin lips that had been sucked plump, not his blushed and flushed cheekbones, and definitely not those eyes that stared up at him now. They were eyes that cut right into him, made sharper somehow, and not a single ounce of innocence. “I could always do something else.”

“What?” His eyelids fluttered, imagining that he could feel breaths on his inner thigh. “What could you possibly have in mind?”

 

***

 

“Oh god,” arching, sobbing, the most beautiful tears that trailed down cheekbones and along thin, pale lips, “please.” His breaths had changed at that, no longer so deep and full and robust, now quick and shallow and full of a longing that made his eyes roll back into his head and a low ‘oh’ manifest in response. “Oh god, oh please,” a high voice that had become higher in suffering, a wonderful suffering of contortion and beauty as Saint Sebastian, “touch me!”

 

***

 

 _I can’t breathe_ , he panicked, mind fluttering about like a startled sparrow,  _I can’t breathe!_  Long, low, mournful sounds came from his throat, drenched, absolutely sopping like that of a whore. He twisted and writhed and choked, sobbing, tears rolling down his face, hips jerking inadequately. “Touch me,” he was breathless, “oh god! Touch me, please!”

Sounds he had made only the night before, now conjured forth from his body again as though he were possessed. His lids twitched as eyes rolled beneath them, lashes fluttering. Fingertips barely brushed over his thigh, his stomach, so close yet not close enough—he let out another sob of frustration. He would go mad with all the arousal, with all the desire. In another situation, he would pace, but now he could only shake as latex-gloved fingertips ghosted ever closer.

His naturally curly, dark hair was plastered down on his head with exertion. “John,” he croaked, a rumble that was nearly an octave higher. His mind seemed to slow down from its usual pace as those thick, sure fingers gave him a lazy, long and drawn tug. He could do nothing but shudder against his restraints and give another of those delicious moans. Sweat had begun to dribble from his brow down chiseled porcelain cheekbones, they were bright red, a vein protruding on the right of his neck—all things that the doctor noted as he continued.


End file.
